Evidence of Murder

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“I have a building full of dead people,” Theresa MacLean told the detective. “I don’t have time for one who isn’t even dead.”

Frank Patrick parked the car against the curb and gestured up at the antique brick architecture in front of them. “Not that we know of. But what woman runs out on a rich husband, a cool apartment, and her five-month-old daughter?”

“A stupid one.” Theresa pulled her stocking cap more tightly over the red hair she hadn’t bothered to curl, and took in the historic structure from a different perspective. “We’re in Lakewood.”

“So you did pay attention on the drive over from the morgue. I thought you’d slipped back into your coma.”

She ignored the coma comment. “I know this place. You can see it from the rapid transit.”

“It used to be the National Carbon Company,” he told her. The redbrick building in front of her would have looked at home on the Oxford campus; its outbuildings, done in matching brick but with much less style, would not have.

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